Biting Off Butterfly Wings
by Whispers To Kill
Summary: To be aesthetically pleasing in such a misconceived, delirious way came a price; it came with the stench of upheaval, the scars of fingers forced to far, of frailness, obsession, deceit, and a sistership to death. Driven by illusion and insecurity, Seychelles suffers the path of bulimia, but she was willing to suffer - anything to be beautiful, anything to be worthy and loved. TW.
1. Chapter 1

**Trigger Warning: Graphic descriptions of purging & eating disordered behaviors/thoughts.**

**Bulimia/Self-Help Hotline: 1-314-588-1683**

**National Eating Disorders Association: 1-800-93102237**

* * *

A slimy, amaranth tongue peeked through vapid, parched lips with the incompetent aim of a blundering, doltish fish; minuscule flecks of chapped flesh quivered resolutely against the jiggling. Watery, gooey saliva spilled forth to soak the shriveled skin, dampening it, and her frail, trembling fingers reached upward lazily to tug at the flesh and loosen the flimsy, repugnant, deceased remnants of lips. The pale, smoky color of death fluttered to the ground in ashen leaves as she cleansed herself of their curse. Relieved of the reapers burden, tender, crimson flesh welcomed the fresh air – raw, but not bleeding.

Bistre eyes resembling the rotting bark of wrinkled, decomposing oak trees gazed into the spread of reflective glass before her. The room that caressed her was a room of luxury, akin to the style of the entire house. Lilac walls, bordered with honey-dew, created an air of gentle modesty. Plush, downy, cotton towels of vanilla appeared to have been stripped from the most delicate Polar Bear fur, and soaps crafted in all of Earth's floral shapes were sculpted opulently. Bottles of colorful soap glistened under the light in mystical scents and tasteful flavors: carnation pink, wild wisteria, electric celeste, bittersweet orange, citrus harlequin and metallic saffron! The trays of make-up were the feminine dream: thick, rich mascara brushes, bottles of gloss, and stacks of bold, neutral, and pastel powders were arranged. Every size brush bloomed from their holders; every point liners, glittery lotions, and nail polish bottles of ostentatious potions were displayed. All of these items sparkled under the reflection of the light, and when the water rushed forth in warm torrents the light caused a feminine, magical disco-like pattern to shimmer upon them.

It was a beautiful bathroom - the opposite of her.

She wished the mirror would spontaneously adopt that pattern of a lightning strike and become littered with cracks that split and shattered violently, however the mirror was essential. The mirror was the key to her transformation to beautiful; the mirror was her adviser and her curse - the mirror was a solution to her metamorphosis of glory. The mirror - which her mind had coined Mother - held within her mind all things gorgeous and would guide her upon the path of being a girl with a marvelous, acceptable body; she'd be fit as the women of Teen Vogue and Seventeen! Yes, this Mother that spat her image within her distraught orbs would lead her to beauty. Mother would continuously display how appalling and beastly she appeared. Mother was a journal, a tool of measurement, and ignite motivation to become the epitome of gorgeous. Mother would teach her of her repulsiveness and someday reflect her success, for once she reached the thinness she seeked, she could then be revered, worthy and loved - she could be what her Father always spoke of and just like all the girls that mattered.

And then she could love herself.

To be aesthetically pleasing in such a misconceived, delirious way came a price; it came with the stench of upheaval, the scars of fingers forced to far, of frailness, obsession, deceit, and a sister-ship to death. It came with the denial of life's essentials, so forth the denial of conscience, and hence to the sacrifice of health for illusion. Yet, like all sin, it became part of her and, as it was part of her this painstaking, costly, self-hatred concealed itself. Pain was deserved by such a grisly, jejune creature, and for such a hideous, shameful creature as herself to achieve loveliness she would have to suffer.

And she was willing to suffer - anything to be beautiful; anything to be worthy; anything to be loved.


	2. Chapter 2

**Trigger Warning: Graphic descriptions of purging & eating disordered behaviors/thoughts.**

**Bulimia/Self-Help Hotline: 1-314-588-1683**

**National Eating Disorders Association: 1-800-93102237**

* * *

Months of anguish had inflicted a bottomless, simmering loathing for the walls of her household inside her. No matter the lavishness of the furniture or the elegance of the space, the hollow rooms were no more than dungeon cells disguised beneath pretty paints and smooth picture frames. The boards of her home were a torturous wall that barricaded her from the activities that allowed her to taste brief relief, happiness and confidence. Inside her home, she saw only dim lighting, blemished carpets, and too many mirrors, and she felt only the pulse of negative energy and the desperate desire to hide beneath the bed covers from the demons that provoked her.

Her demons were horrendous creatures; they hid beneath the shadows of the lighting and inside the drawers of her dressers; they thrived on her isolation and drained the blood of her security. They drove her to grief with their putrid whispers and taunts; they burrowed within the membrane of her cells and sank their slimy bodies into the pupils of her eyes. In the silence, they roared in her eardrums; their skin was scaled like scabs of dried blood and putrid green liquid seeped from their raw lips.

The house was empty, and starvation gnawed upon the walls of her barren stomach with pesky, rotten, yellowed teeth. A hungry ache thundered inside her and shrieked like a child, begging in a tantrum of tears, anger and despair. Her stomach convulsed beneath violent hunger cramps; hollow and desperate, she felt as if her insides had rotted to ashes with agony. Constant was her stomach's mocking cry of "Food, food, food!"

Oh, she wanted food, she desired it, and she _needed_ it. Warm, soft, doughy bread encased in a crisp, crackling, golden crust and dripping with melted, golden butter; pastas that steamed and overflowed with sweet green spices and creamy, rich sauces; divine chocolate that melted at the touch and swirled in pleasant, milky wisps of cocoa delight sent saliva spilling over the edges of her cracked lips. She could feel the fluffy, moist flesh of cakes swirling in her mouth and the bubbly, explosion of sweet carbonated fruit drinks sliding down her throat. It was two days since she had last stepped inside the forbidden borders of the kitchen and one night since she had last let that disgusting, gluttonous, fat fester inside her body.

Her moods swirled in a pool of muck and meshed together into an ugly puddle of anger, grief, and apathy, utterly unbalanced from her lack of nutrition. She needed to abstain from her ravenous desires, to clear her mind of these vicious images, and to fall into sleep and avoid this agony in a dreamless narcotic. Yet, like a rag doll, her feet dealt a smack of betrayal to her cheek and dragged her by the hair into the kitchen.

What a foolish, worthless girl she was to allow herself to even glance within the kitchen walls, and how languorous and flawed was she that her stomach rumbled in response? Where was her discipline? Where was her shame? How dare she believe she deserved to even sniff a morsel of cuisine?

Thin: to be thin is to be beautiful, beautiful she is not, and beautiful she must be.

No food was safe if she wished to achieve beauty, nor was she worthy of the item. Her hands shook in stress and deprivation like the ground beneath The Great War's bombings. Each bite of food added ruin to her shriveled skin; each bite of food added pound after pound of treacherous fat to her thick body, and piled repulsive flaw after flaw to her figure.

Food was a poison and a liar; food was the mother of all repulsive features and she was determined not be the victim.

Yet hands the shook with stress and malnutrition pried apart the doors of the pantry. Wrappers galore shimmered beneath the fluorescent light in a delectable display of perfectly packaged sugar and salt: candy flavored sprinkles; sweet, vanilla cookies; crimson, spicy chili; crisp saltine crackers; soft, cinnamon peaches; golden, salty popcorn; colorful frosted cakes; crunchy, whole cereal; creamy warm soup; long, twisting spaghetti; every flavor, and every desire. Saliva flooded beneath her tongue and soaked her teeth in a painful rush that stung her glands at its hurry. Her stomach begged like a wild dog, and her mind screamed for relief from the crippling, dark cramps of need. Salvation stood on these shelves and they waved passionate flags and shrieked her name with large, inviting grins.

_Stop! No! _

_You don't _deserve_ this. _

But three days was so long.

_Please!_

She tasted nothing; she drowned beneath a black sea of apathy. Package after package she tore from the pantry, clawing apart the foil wrappers and devouring endlessly. Cheap icing that tasted too sweet and salt that stung her lips smothered her fingers, and she licked her appendages clean of evidence the desperately. Each item slid down her throat like snakes and phlegm, and each item tore the beauty from her skin like a lynching.

_You're fat._

_You're stupid._

_You're weak._

_You're ugly._

No one can love you now; everyone will leave you.

How could she betray herself? How could she behave so carelessly? She was aghast at the amount she had consumed and the items she had swallowed. Her skin would fall to ruin; the miniscule amount of beauty she possessed would vanish and she would equate to naught. She was vile, and loathsome, and wretched. What a stupid wilted flower she was; how terribly hopeless and beastly. If her friends ever discovered her actions – if her father knew... How could they ever bear to gaze upon her? If she could not emerge as splendid in figure then she had no worth, for she had no other asset, no intelligence, no humor, no sweetness, no nothing.

She was grotesque.

She was nauseating.

She needed to consume nothing in order to become something.

_Mother, forgive me, please._


	3. Chapter 3

**Trigger Warning: Graphic descriptions of purging & Eating disordered behaviors/thoughts.  
**

**Bulimia/Self-Help Hotline: 1-314-588-1683**

**National Eating Disorders Association: 1-800-93102237**

* * *

She yanked her fingers backwards as gunky clumps of food eructed from the depths, lest she be forced to swallow it again. The vomit plunked into the toilet and splattered her body with droplets of murky liquid; her eyes clamped shut to guard them from the contaminated water. Her trembling hands wiped mucilaginous liquid and flakes of half-digested food onto the soft fabric of her dress before she forced her fingers back inside her sore mouth. She flicked the appendages back and forth and shuddered as she felt her nails scraping the flesh of her esophagus, pooling a viscid liquid beneath them. She shook her head back and forth, opened and closed her mouth, and pounded her abdomen desperately as she attempted to summon her gag reflex.

Numerous purges had granted her immunity to much of her pharyngeal reflex; once she had struggled to force her fingers to the back of her mouth, but now she could allow them to rest inside her throat with ease. Finally, she felt a rush of tension as the contents of her stomach flung into the bowl before her. Her right arm trembled as it struggled to support her body against the retching that racked her body, and her lungs struggled to receive oxygen. The vile music of vomiting bounded off the walls, and the hideous salmon liquid released a putrid scent that poisoned the air she was forced to breathe.

She gagged relentlessly for an hour; shots of relief flooded her body as the terrible foods reemerged, no longer corrupting her body with their loathsome calories, nutrients and chemicals. Globs of sugary donuts and packaged cakes emerged in heavy, gelatinous blobs that caused her chest to ache as they were yanked from deep within her stomach. Soon, noodles swam up whole and splashed into the toilet where they wiggled and swam beside the claylike cakes. White flecks of curdled milk and bits of cereal (Cocoa Puffs, Fruit Loops, and Captain Crunch!) poured forth like a foul breakfast smoothie.

A slush of chocolate ice cream sloshed from her throat; it had retained its light, fluffy texture and sloppily spilled across her face and floated lackadaisically atop the water. Between each purge she gasped with vertigo and exhaustion, becoming increasingly fascinated with the mixture in the toilet in her dazed, bleary state. A twinge of stomach acid bit into her taste buds, signaling that she had nearly depleted her stomach; the sapor was more pungent black coffee and contributed to her nausea.

Finally she fell back against the bathroom floor and collapsed on her side; the cool tile against her cheek sweetly combated the heat-flashes purging evoked. Listlessly, she watched as saliva and stomach acid dripped down her fingers and arm, leaving behind miniscule rivers of mucus. Each droplet fell languidly and coated her body in a repellent scent. She had neither the energy to crawl into bed nor the energy to sob away her sadness.

Her chest ached as if the monster inside her was pounding its fists against her ribcage and begging to be released (Hadn't she just released it?). Tiny tingling sensations tickled the walls of her stomach, leaving her abdomen squirming in discomfort; saliva burned her throat with each swallow as if to taunt her with the misery of living. Her eyes fluttered downwards and rested upon her detestable stomach; bloated and horrendous, it towered above her body and concealed the sight of her ribs and hip bones. Her hands fell upon it, smearing stomach acid and vomit across her stomach in their wake.

She first pinched the skin, then grabbed two fistfuls of the abominable flesh and shuddered behind a sob. Frustrated and ashamed, she dug her nails into the dreadful fat and tore. She writhed and convulsed in anger and disgust as her hands clawed her deplorable figure. She prodded and pulled the flesh and scratched her skin to pink and red. Hysterically she wished she could tear all of the flesh from her being and reveal the beautiful, glorious bones beneath. Her fingers quivered as they traced the only hint of beauty on her atrocious form and felt the faint outline of collarbones beneath her flesh – but collarbones were not enough; she must have collarbones, hip bones, ribs bones, and thigh gaps!

She had devoured the entire kitchen within an hour; she had betrayed the beauty hidden beneath her wretched fat. What divine being could forgive her for such a sin? Who could love a worthless girl who only binges and purges and cries? Who could gaze upon her and not wither with contempt? Who could touch her and not recoil in disgust? Not she, not her friends, not any one.

Shamefully, she felt the way her fat skin spread across the tile floor and the repulsive way that her body jiggled with each sob. She felt the fat creeping along her limbs, whispering her worthlessness in her ears, and destroying her chances for beauty and love. She was grotesque, unworthy, and contemptible by all standards (neither pretty nor smart)! She needed to be skinny (skinny would bring her happiness!), yet she had devoured the kitchen like a gluttonous fool! Calorie after calorie was flooding her body, molting into fat, and emerging on every horrendous inch of her body. Abhorrent, appalling, hideous girl – how dare you show your disgraceful self?

She stumbled to standing, flushed the toilet, and watched another piece of her life spin down the drain.

"_Skinny girls don't eat."_


End file.
